The Sorrows of the Noldorin
by Wanderer of Realms
Summary: A look at the sorrows and regrets of the Noldorin as they breathe their last.
1. Fingolfin

In his last moments, Fingolfin did not feel the pain from his wound, the rapidly growing pool of dark red that watered the ground. But he felt the crushing pain of his years, the fall of his kin from grace into a desperate band of peoples, scattered and divided. He had paid for his gullibility, his naivete. He paid for it in the blood of his kin. And the worst part was that had been responsible for so much of the suffering.

Fingolfin had always thought to trust his brother, He told himself that Feanor had a plan, that Feanor knew what he was doing. He was the eldest son of his esteemed father, Finwe. So he left his beloved Anaire, and took the largest of the hosts of the Noldorin back to Middle-Earth to revenge the taken Silmarils with the rest of the House of Finwe. But when he saw the flames, the fire, the roaring inferno that burned the beautiful swan-ships of the Teleri from afar, he knew he was wrong. And betrayed. And ashamed. He could not go back west, to the Blessed Realm. Not any longer. The only choice was through the ice-deserts of the Grinding Ice. But that was only the beginnings of the price his kin was to pay.

To him, the Dagor Aglareb, the Glorious Battle was not glorious at all. Despite the victory, he saw the ruthlessness of his once-kin, the deformed and mutilated things the Dark Usurper called orcs. He heard the moans and screams of those that had not the luck to die painlessly. The metallic smell of blood, coupled with burned flesh. He saw terrible things; the dismembered limbs, the ravaged faces. They belonged to Elves that were once whole and beautiful. Now they would return to their wives and children, either cripples or corpses. Fingolfin cursed himself for it. It was his fault. Each and every soldier's suffering and pain and loss was his fault. He had brought them out of Valinor. He was the guilty party.

For four hundred years, a watchful peace remained on the old enemy at the gates of Angband. Yet one day, the ancient enemy sent out rivers of flame, consuming Ard-galen. Many more of his kin perished, in desperate attempts to escape the ravenous flames and smoke of Angband. In the darkest reaches of night, Fingolfin made himself imagine what it must have been like. The fierce scramble that must have broken out, the scramble to safety, to somewhere the flames couldn't have reached. To no avail. The Siege was broken, the sons of Feanor scattered. The evil forces ran amok in the north, roaming at will in the north.

Fingolfin owed it to his people. He owed it to his family. He owed it to Anaire, still waiting for him in the Blessed Realm. He owed it to himself, to his conscience, to pay for his mistakes, the mistakes that led his people to sorrow and grief, the likes of which they never had to endure in the white city of Tuna. So he took up his sword, Ringil, and rode on his steed Rochallor in anger across Anfauglith as Orome on Nahar.

When he fought the Cursed One, he forced himself to remember his people. He fought for his people and what he had brought upon them. He was atoning for his ill decisions, his recklessness. The gaping gash on the leg of the Dark Lord was for his people, whom he owed everything.

He had never expected to survive. Fingolfin had ridden into battle with name of Anaire on his lips, the names of his children in his mind, and the names of the Noldor in his heart. In any sort of fair world, he would be killed hundreds of times over for his crimes. But it was not a fair world. So as he breathed his last, he whispered the words he had to say, one last time. "I am sorry."


	2. Feanor

Feanor looked off the slopes of Ered Withrin. Dimly, he could hear the sounds of battle still at the doors of Angband. He sat with his back propped up against a tree, where he could see the peaks of Thangorodrim from afar. Feanor looked down to see blood pooling from his stomach, a red smile stretching across his hips. Feanor knew his time was limited. He turned his attention back to Angband, his gaze darkening.

 _Feanor loved his Silmarils. They were his pride, his joy. With every second spent poring over the perfectly cut and designed gems, burning from the radiant light of the Two Trees. Even Varda had hallowed them, sacred in their beauty and honor. He remembered Melkor, walking through the trees, his lies slowly seeping into the ground and diffusing in the air. It tainted everything. Including Feanor himself. As a result, he was shut away in the fortress of Formenos. It was all stone, grey stone. Drab. He was bored. Tired. Restless._

 _Then the Valar had come to him. His presence was requested in Valinor to reconcile the enmity between the Noldor and the Valar. And while Feanor sat, eating and drinking, Melkor the Defiler stole his beloved jewels. They were MINE, Feanor thought. My own! My… precious._

 _Feanor was enraged, calling the Noldorin to arms with his tongue of silver. And the Noldorin set off, along with many of their kin. Feanor remembered the Kinslaying of Aqualonde. He only knew three things: the Teleri had boats. They were unwilling to sacrifice them to the Noldor for a noble cause. Kill them. And that is what the Noldorin did. Feanor charged to the docks, slicing through the Teleri like a knife in hot butter. Fingolfin and Finarfin too. But when the battle finally ended, when the sea was colored red in Elvish blood, Finarfin looked up and saw the horror of what he had caused. Finarfin turned back. He was weak._ Feanor turned aside and spat on the ground.

 _Feanor remembered abandoning his brother in the Grinding Ice of the Helcaraxe. He remembered burning his son Amras alive, not knowing that he was still in one of those ships that he ordered be set on fire._ Those were the raw moments. The ones that reeked of fear. Fear is for the weak. Fear is for the prey. _Once in Middle Earth, Feanor made to march on the gates of Angband. Each day, his heart, his body, his mind yearned for the Silmarils. He constantly sought it, by day or by night, by storm or by sun. Always, always searching for it._

And all of it ended here. At the base of an apple tree, facing Thangorodrim, those accursed mountains belching ash and molten rock. Feanor gritted his teeth, narrowing his eyes at Angband. He would not die a pathetic, whimpering creature. He would hold his head high. Feanor spat a curse at Morgoth once. For destroying his people. He spat another curse at Angband. For destroying all he had ever loved. A final curse at Morgoth. For tainting the light of the Silmarils. Feanor could feel his body giving out, but his spirit remained strong, even brighter than it ever was. It started to burn in his chest, giving way to such intensity that even Feanor was consumed his fiery soul.

In his final seconds, Feanor wondered if he regretted any of it. The Kinslaying. Fingolfin. Amras. The Silmarils. Feanor looked deep inside himself and saw nothing but the blackness of revenge. But deep in the center, at the very core of his being, he found a little seed of sadness. But he could not dwell on it further as the fire of his soul consumed his body and Curufinwe Feanaro passed into legend.


	3. Thingol

Anger filled Thingol as he sat in his High Throne in Doriath,, none like he had ever felt before. It filled him, causing his very limbs to buzz with rage. But most of all, it blinded him.

"You ask for the Nauglamir? You dare ask for the Nauglamir?" he roared at the Dwarf, the Naugrim. The Stunted People. Still infuriated, he looked at him with distaste. The Naugrim lacked any grace nor agility like that of the Eldar, the Firstborn of Iluvatar. "You shall never even set eyes on the heirloom of my people!" Thingol stood, a towering and imposing figure on the small Dwarf. The King made sure the Dwarf was looking him right in the eye, "The Nauglamir is mine!" he hissed.

Thingol looked down, almost surprised to see the spear stabbed grotesquely in his stomach.. The Naugrim had exacted their revenge. He slumped down against the blood-stained wall, staring at his hands. What a petty, childish thing to die over, he thought. I am no better than little children, refusing to give their treasures of buttons and shells. He paused in thought, ashamed. I am diminished, he finished.

It was not like this in the beginning. Doriath had forged an alliance with the Dwarves of Belegost, the ones that had carved out Menegroth for him. In return, Thingol had presented them with many gifts, including the great pearl, Nimphelos. If they weren't friends, at least they weren't enemies.

Then the Black Darkness had come. Evil had seeped into Middle-Earth, bringing the Noldorin along with it. The Usurper attacked the lands of Beleriand. He had worked with the Naugrim, beating back the orcs. Thingol had been appalled to learn they were once Eldar. They were fallen now, the precise image of things that were once beautiful and whole, now destructed and broken. Sometimes, Thingol felt empathy for the orcs. They did not know what they fought for. They fought mindlessly because they were told. However, they were killing his people. And Thingol's sense of duty for Doriath was far greater than that of his small pity for the orcs.

He had seen too many of his kin die. Never before was death so harsh and unforgiving as that day, that day drenched with thick rain, the metallic smell of blood in the air. Elvish blood. The blood of his people. Thingol could still feel that blood on his hands, as if he were guilty of murder of every single Elf that had died that day. So he withdrew from the wars of the Noldor, leaving them to fend for themselves.

Thingol's attention snapped back to the present. There were fewer people in the throne room now, either slain or drawn elsewhere to the fight. He groaned, his head tilting backwards against the wall as he slumped, making stains on the beautiful marble walls. Every minute of his life, Thingol had fought for survival. The Noldorin were the gifted ones, the ones that had seen the light of the Valar, of Valinor.

Yet, he, like the Noldor, had failed in the face of temptations and wars. He was no better than them. It was a sobering thought, more so than watching the blood trickle out of his own body. In the end, Thingol had failed. He had failed his people, Melian, his children, as well as himself. It didn't matter, he thought grimly. It was all for naught. Everything he had done since the dawn of time was for naught.

Thingol could vaguely remember the days when he was Elwe Singollo, merely the leader of his people, journeying to Valinor. That was when things were simple; the only rule of life being "Follow the Valar." Now, Middle-Earth was a mess of deceits, treacheries and wars. How had it come to this? And Melian. She was right, as usual, The Nauglamir was not worth the lives of his kin, as beautiful as it was.

So as Elu Thingol's vision darkened, he said one last goodbye to his people, and finally, one fond farewell to Melian, voicing aloud his regrets and his anguishes. "Melian," he whispered, knowing she would never hear his last words to her. "Do you remember the trees in the forest of Nan Elmoth? They were so beautiful. The grass was like a velvet carpet underneath my feet, the sky a silky cushion above. But the most exquisite thing was the sound of the voice singing among the trees. It was as an elegant dove, serenading the sunrise." Tears found its way down his cheek, etching into his face. "You were so beautiful, Melian. So beautiful." Thingol closed his eyes. "I wish I could live that again. But, alas, it is not the wont of the stars."


	4. Turgon

Turgon watched as his kingdom burned, burned in the fires of the Balrogs that ran rampant in his White City. His troops were falling back to the Square of the King, where the Gondolindrim would make their last stand against the evil of Morgoth.

Turgon had thought he and his people would be safe, deep in the valley of Tumladen, in their secret kingdom. No one entered, and no one left. For ages, Gondolin flourished, the hidden center of beauty. It rivaled Tirion itself, the very one in Valinor, with its great white spires, glimmering in the sunlight. Glingal and Bethil, trees of gold in silver in memory of the two lights of Yavanna: Telperion and Laurelin. His kingdom, his people had been happy. He had been happy, the Staff of Doom in one hand, a coronet of garnets on his head, and Glamdring at his side.

The shouts of a messenger broke Turgon from his thoughts. "My lord," he said, gasping for breath. "A fresh host broke through the western walls. The lords Tuor and Ecthelion are defending it, although Balrogs pour in. Ecthelion has been grievously hurt."

Turgon mouthed a curse. "They can't defend the wall. Order them to fall back to the Tower of the King."

The messenger bowed, running at full speed back into the torrents of battle.

Then it hit the King. _This might be the end of Gondolin,_ he realized, almost staggering backwards with the weight of the idea. He had thought his soldiers may be able to beat back the orcs, but with Balrogs coming in through the western wall, the chances of survival grew slim. Turgon wished he had said a proper goodbye to Idril before coming, but it was too late for that. Already, troops were pouring into the Square of the King. Thinking fast, Turgon ordered barricades to be erected, although he knew they wouldn't stop the forsaken servants of Morgoth.

Most of his soldiers were in the Square now. The sound of booming, beating drums signaling Gondolin's defeat were ringing in the valley. Thousands of iron boots trampled up the white stone to the Square, a frightful din of snarls and yells following. Turgon barely had time to give final orders before the orcs broke through the shabby barricades as a knife through butter, and piled into the Square. The King turned around to his soldiers.

"For ages we have stood strong and secret from the face of our enemies. They have found us now, but let us show them though we are a hidden people, we are strong!" His voice reverberated through the square.

The orcs came barrelling through the Noldor defenses. Never before had Turgon seen so much war, so much blood. It ran through the streets, turning the pristine white fountains into a murky, dark red. One by one, the great lords of Gondolin were lost to the Enemy.

"Gondolin is lost," Turgon whispered to himself as his heart broke for his people. He ordered his captains to fall back once again into the tunnel which Tuor and Idril escaped.

Deep in the tunnels, running, running for their lives, Glorfindel passed Turgon.

"My liege," he said.

"What is it?"

"I sense something dark and terrible ahead. Allow me to lead the people," Glorfindel said, wary.

"Permission granted," Turgon answered, still running, steadying his pace for the long journey away from all he had ever worked for.

Glorfindel turned away, toward the front.

"Glorfindel!" Turgon said, halting his captain. "Don't get yourself killed. I'm coming with you."

The two sprinted towards the front. After a while came a roar. Far away in the tunnel, Turgon saw the glow of red flame.

"The Balrog of Morgoth," Glorfindel said with derision.

"It must be lying in ambush," Turgon said, heart sinking. "We have led our people from one disaster to another."

"Not if we kill it first," Glorfindel said, eyes steeling, drawing his sword.

"Agreed," Turgon said, drawing his.

The Balrog was strong. Strong enough to kill both of Gondolin's best warriors. Turgon went down as the Balrog tossed him to the wall with a strength enough to break the skull of a mountain troll. The craftsmen of Gondolin had strengthened Turgon's armour, but it was not enough. He was losing too much blood. Damning it all, Glorfindel rushed to his King.

"I should have helped my kin," Turgon said with a raspy whisper. "Instead of walling myself in, I should have helped them. And this is my price."

"Turgon…" Glorfindel said.

"I shut myself in the hidden walls of Gondolin. Now the world of the Noldor is falling," Turgon said, eyes glazing over. "I go now back to Elenwe. Glorfindel. Protect the Gondolindrim." And with that, the King of Gondolin died.


End file.
